From Self, To Self

I was a witness.


I saw years move into your
hands as softness became
companion to callous.

You were a ruby cut for a
crown of grace,
even when you were in the ditch.

I heard the hook call you its
prey, as you yanked away from the
sin that pulled you in
with a tale.

Her bait was narrated in
savory voice.
At times she gave you
nectar for the ear.

You savored each sentence,
but you didn’t see the twiddle in her plot,
the guise of her hate.

I was a witness
and saw cities of promise slain
from the flames you stirred.

So I must warn:


what you were when the
clocks were young,

and what you are as
they route toward another hand,


and what you will become, 


won’t have the same end.


But they may have the same dangers.

Sin won’t perch on your
window sill at the birth of every dawn.
But she’ll remain in your air,

changing her feathers till she finds your shade of attraction.

Asking why you haven’t stroked her colors yet. Then bite and ask again.

And though you do not see him now,

Distraction plots in
his war room and, at times, may dispatch thousands to
ambush you during days of peace.

Silent soldiers. Diverging, diverting your eyes from Jesus,

the soul’s True Treasure.

And now I must blaze another siren.

Some days will deliver three letters at sunrise:


One enclosed with a pebble to
ripple the waters.

Another telling you to focus

only on the present.

The last, missing the note that told you those

ripples will wade into eternity.


So I am writing with loving hands:
love your True Treasure.

Because you will
be a witness.

 

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